After the kids grew up and scattered, my parents spent a lot of time on jigsaw puzzles. Visiting them, we would see the evidence of puzzles in progress atop the card table. The puzzles were a source of satisfaction and shared endeavor for them, and evidence of their intellectual integrity for us.

Our parents seemed to savor the completed puzzles a while, yet know when to surrender them back to the box (and not shellac them into rigid permanance). Savor, then surrender.

Remembering home

After my mother died six years ago, my father, already evidencing Alzheimer's Disease, was still able to solve 500 piece jigsaw puzzles and charm his nursing home staff. We kids were so happy to see his preserved puzzle-solving power that we ordered a Puzzle of Home – a contour-map puzzle of St. Elmo and the surrounding area. The map showed the streets where I ranged unsupervised on my bicycle, and the nearby roads to the oil field where my father made a daily living. 

Savoring strengths

I learned to savor his remaining abilities and strengths. He could walk around the lake at the park, where we both enjoyed smiling at the toddlers we encountered, hoping to speak to them.  Over time, the walks grew shorter. The upslope a challenge. Getting in and out of the car near impossible. The little losses accumulated in my heart. 

After our mother died, I was impressed by my father's adaptation to her loss. He had expressed his grief, had savored the long relationship that he so treasured, and then surrendered. Not in dismay and longing, but in soldering on. Not relenteless and destructive, but dutiful – dedicated to live as he always had. Loving God, and to loving one another. 

So, I use these little opportunities to write and savor the memories, to make meaning of what still puzzles, and then to surrender.

I came across a small sketch in my journal of a father and son sitting quietly together beside a campfire. In my notes, I recall an experience of a wordless powerful presence. I remember a time on a winter Boy Scout campout in the city park when my father held vigil over a fellow Scout who had fallen asleep on a log beside the fire, wrapped in his sleeping bag. This was a community of trust. 

My memories sitting around the fire with him were not one of familiar retold stories, but of quiet presence. Of attending to safety, of fostering the growth and leadership abilities of these young men. The smell of campfire smoke in the air and my clothes evokes primal memories of wonder and belonging. 

The smoke and fire are a reminder. The magic worked by the presence of caring. We work that magic for others at work, in our relationships, and in building (or rebuilding) our communities. This generous listening is powerful beyond our imagination in ways we may never know. 

In warmer weather, I regularly sit 'round the fire with a group of men whom I've known for decades, whom I trust and to whom I am trustworthy. The foundations were built when I was in my teens, around the campfire with men like my father, a powerful presence. 

The last time I touched my father is not the one I'll cherish. At the funeral, in the open coffin, his body was cold, preserved for this final farewell. His face caked with stage make-up.

I'll remember other warmer touches. In the past year when he said little, I was charmed by our hand-holding as we walked slowly, me gently tugging, my tow cable arm aching from the stretch back. In the gentle caress of our hands, Dad's touch spoke with affection. Often in my own head, I'm surprised how much these memories are from the body.  

In my youth, the language of touch was having my back scratched as I laid across my father's lap. As I got older, he shifted to rubbing my bare feet. Both undeniably pleasurable for me, and selflessly generous on his part. 

After my mother died and he moved to Columbia near me, I had a sense of duty and service toward him. I owed him. I hope I shared some sense of his selflessness. 

Service has a devotional sense to it – of worship, of watching. I was like the acolyte who had a job to do, at the expected time, a part of the team. My time was now, in the twilight years of his life, while there was still light to let shine. While we were both warm to the touch. 

I came across a photo I don't remember taking. Of a nascent loss of a loved one. My mother, Iris, lies very quiet in her hospice hospital bed in the darkly-paneled living room. Just now, I'm tempted to call it the dying room, but hospice helps us see these last days as living to the fullest. Meager fullness perhaps, but none the sweeter. 

My wife and my sister sit at her side, quietly attentive, supporting one another with their presence. A generous presence. Unflinching. Unblinking. Steadfast.

Two men are in the scene, standing some small distance back, attentive in their own way. Lost in strategy. I am one, behind the lens, composing this compact drama delicately unfolding. Witnessing with the photographer's eye, capturing deftly. 

Across the room is my father standing in his undershirt about to speak. His face is a mixture of guarded concern, a bit lost in his own home, and casting about for a way forward. 

In the coming days, we, his family will guide him to the funeral home, to the church, and to the cemetery. A week from now, he will start his daily sojourn afoot to the graveside to remember his Iris. A few months later, leave his home of 60 years to live nearer to us. And within a few years, as his capacity for memory erodes, this loss of his beloved Iris will be a forgotten loss.